Mistletoe and Misery: A Collection of Ficlets
by Ravariel
Summary: Short oneshots, each written for a different Christmas prompt. Recent updates feature Feuilly and Montparnasse as gamins together, young Valjean with his nieces and nephews, and Combeferre attending a dying patient. Then Gillenormand gets some surprising carolers, the Amis throw things during a meeting, and Combeferre and Enjolras return to Paris after holidays with family. 25/25!
1. Mistletoe: Valjean and Cosette: 1831

Cosette came in from the garden, singing to herself. "Papa!" she called. "Papa, look what I found!"

Valjean emerged from the sitting room, and she rushed to him.

"See? Mistletoe! To hang in the house, for Christmas. It was growing on the tree by the garden bench, just in my reach when I stretched—put it up, Papa. For me, please."

He stood there, staring at her radiant face. Mistletoe? But mistletoe was for lovers. For a moment, his mind flashed back to that young man in the Luxembourg, the one who'd looked at his Cosette in such a way—could it be she was thinking of him? Hoping? Growing up?

"Please," Cosette repeated, with wide and happy eyes. He could not refuse her, and sought out a nail and some string.

A few minutes later, the green sprig with white berries was above the door into the sitting room, and Cosette was standing back to admire it. Then she looked up at him and took his hand.

"Come, Papa, and let me kiss you."

As they moved under the mistletoe and she pressed her lips to his cheek, joy rushed over him. Cosette was happy; Cosette loved him. And that was all he needed to know.

"Happy Christmas, my child," he said, kissing her on the forehead.


	2. Hot Chocolate: Valjean and Cosette: 1825

The difference in Cosette in the past two years was astounding, Valjean thought, bending over the fire in the little house he shared with Fauchelevent. She was ten years old now, happy and confident, though still quiet among her peers…so different from the miserable waif he had first met two Christmases ago. And now he was waiting for her to be released from the nuns' solemn Christmas Eve mass and come skipping in to see him, that infectious smile on her face.

He hadn't long to wait before she was letting in the winter wind and flinging herself into his arms. "Happy Christmas, Father! Happy Christmas!"

Laughing, he settled her on his knee. "That's not until tomorrow, my dear."

"Oh," she said, "but the sisters are celebrating it already, so I can say so, can't I? I think I can say so. I have a present for you but I will give it to you tomorrow."

"Yes, tomorrow I'll have presents for you, as well," he said. "But what do you want to do tonight?"

She thought a moment. "Can we have something sweet? The sisters don't give us sweet things, not even for Christmas."

"Of course." It was a frequent request, so he had made sure to get something for her, though he himself was content enough with plain food. "Have you ever had hot chocolate, Cosette?"

She shook her head, looking eager, and he took the kettle from the fire to pour her a cup. "Be careful—but I think you'll like it."

Cosette raised the cup with both hands, blew on the liquid, and took a tiny sip. As she did, the eagerness on her face melted into pleasure and contentment. "You find the best things, Father," she said.

"Only the best for you, Cosette," he murmured, holding her close.


	3. Snow: Valjean: 1796

He had never been so cold before.

It had been snowing for three straight days, but the work never stopped, the chains never came off, dry clothes were never provided. Punishments were being freely meted out as well—the lash always in the air, the double chain ready to be applied—because the work was slower than normal. The guards didn't understand, Valjean thought bitterly, standing there in their layers of thick wool and taking short shifts so they could get back to the fireside, and thinking of a home to go to at the end of the day. They didn't understand how it was not to feel your hands, to have your shirt soaked through and frozen to your back, to labor for hours with icy metal locked around your ankles. They didn't understand—

"What'll you do when you go home?" he heard one of the guards say to another.

"We'll have a nice roast," said the second guard. "And sing some carols. Then, presents for little Nathalie. It's her first Christmas, you know."

_Christmas. _The word struck Valjean like a blow to the face. Christmas—and his family alone, without a provider, probably without food, let alone any holiday cheer. The faces of his nieces and nephews, forgotten during the last long months, suddenly flashed through his mind, and he halted.

God, he wondered, are they even still alive? Did they die of hunger after all?

He didn't know, couldn't know. And the rest of his five-year sentence seemed an eternity.

Four more cold, lonely, miserable Christmases to go.

One of the guards suddenly cuffed him around the head for idling, and he bent his back to his work. Christmas or not, all that mattered now was to make it to the end of the day.


	4. Peppermint Stick: Valjean, Cosette: 1830

Valjean had purchased fifty large loaves of bread that morning, and now he and Cosette were headed to a small church to distribute it to the poor. As their fiacre approached a festively-decorated candy shop, however, Cosette spoke up.

"Father?"

"Yes, Cosette."

"Father, we are always giving bread to the poor—bread, and warm things, what they need to live. But I was thinking…there are so many children. And they're always so sad."

A shadow crossed his face. "Yes, most of them are."

"I want to make them happy, Papa," she said earnestly. "If only for a moment. To let them have the pleasures other children have."

Valjean inclined his head. "And how do you propose we do that, Cosette?"

She pointed to the candy store, which was now behind them. "Peppermint sticks."

His brow wrinkled. "…peppermint sticks?"

Cosette nodded. "Yes. I've enough pocket money to buy quite a lot of them, and candy always makes children happy. I—" She blushed. "I still remember the first time you bought me candy. It was a peppermint stick. I hadn't known that anything could be so wonderful."

Valjean stared at her a moment, then leaned out the carriage window and bid the driver turn around. When they emerged from the candy store a quarter of an hour later, they had enough peppermint sticks for every poor child they met that day.

With every smile, Valjean remembered the face of little Cosette smiling up at him.


	5. Midnight Mass: Enjolras and Jehan: 1829

_(AN: This prompt was supposed to be "Christmas trees," but the Christmas tree was not really a tradition in France for quite a long while after the period in which Les Misérables is set. So, I replaced it with something that was as common then and there as Christmas trees are here and now—attending midnight mass.)_

"I thought you were of a more Protestant persuasion?" Enjolras said to Jehan, slipping into the pew in the crowded sanctuary of Notre Dame.

Jehan turned and, realizing Enjolras' presence for the first time, greeted him with a smile. "I am," he answered, "but that does not keep me from finding joy and peace and spiritual transport through the music, and through the gathering of so many souls to worship and rest and exult in God becoming man. —But why are you here? I took you for…oh, a Deist, perhaps, but certainly not a participant in organized religion."

"I am not," Enjolras responded. "I stopped attending mass when I left home and came to Paris. Still, like you, I find something here today. Resonating throughout this cathedral, spreading through the city on this night, illuminating every heart, every face—hope. Can you feel it, citizen? A rare and powerful hope, which many of these people never feel."

"Yes," Jehan said, his voice quiet with awe. "I feel it."

Bells began to ring, and silence fell as the crowd awaited the words of the priest, the voices of the choir. Enjolras lifted his face, hair glinting in the candlelight. "The future is coming," he whispered. "It is coming, and it will be ruled by the Love that is here tonight."


	6. Angel: Combeferre and Enjolras: 1820

_(AN: This one is longer than previous fills. It's also more headcanon-y, set when Combeferre and Enjolras were boys. As such, I've used first names for them. TW for mentions of child abuse.)_

Etienne Combeferre was thirteen years old and lonely on Christmas.

He sat on his bed that night after the festivities, hugging his knees and examining his gifts from his parents. There was only one book, he thought sadly. He had asked for books…but he was old enough now to notice that his younger siblings usually received exactly what they asked for, while his more scholarly interests were deemed completely inappropriate.

The one book was not on science or Latin or ancient history or any of the other topics he had asked after. Instead, it was a collection of stories from Napoleon's campaigns. Etienne flipped through it, sighing. He would read it, of course—he was always desperate for things to read—but his father needed to move past the fallen empire. At least it wasn't a book on efficiently running a business, which he wouldn't put past M. Combeferre to give as a Christmas gift.

He set the book aside in the pile of new handkerchiefs and too-simple games, giving way to the thought that he'd been pushing out of his mind for the last half-hour. His father had gone out, and the only reason he went out late at night was to drink.

When he was drunk, he was violent. When he was violent, he always came after Etienne—the disappointing eldest son who only cared about school, spent too much time running around with that Enjolras boy, and was always questioning his authority.

What a way to end Christmas, Etienne thought. He'll come back without his key again, I'll have to let him in, and I'll like as not get dragged down to the cellar and beaten.

He was biting his lip and resigning himself to a miserable end to a miserable day when a clump of snow smacked against his window. Eyes widening, he rushed over and shoved it open.

Alexandre Enjolras was standing in the dark garden, pale and golden haired and wrapped in a black coat. Etienne's heart leapt at the sound of his voice quietly calling up.

"Merry Christmas, Citizen Etienne! Can you come down?"

Etienne weighed the risks quickly, then discounted them. "Yes—wait just a minute while I put my coat on."

He shut the window, hurried into his coat and shoes, and tiptoed downstairs, taking the house key from the table and going out the kitchen door into the garden. Alexandre was waiting there to hug him tight and to thrust a package into his hands.

"I found it at M. Giraud's bookshop and thought you'd like to have it."

Etienne held the gift in both hands, a quiet smile coming to his face for the first time all day. "You bought me a book."

Alexandre laughed gently. "We've been friends for years now. I would hope I know you well enough to get you a book for Christmas."

Etienne, laughing in response, peeled away the paper and opened the book to the title page. "Condorcet, _Selected Political Writings_!" he said breathlessly.

Alexandre nodded. "It has the piece on slavery, the one on admitting women to the rights of citizenship, 'On Despotism,' 'On Freedom,' 'On Revolution'—a fairly wide representation of his views, I think. Since you're interested in him."

He pressed the book to his chest. "It's—it's wonderful, Alexandre. Thank you. I…I don't have anything for you. I haven't been able to get out of the house for more than a few minutes all week, so I couldn't buy anything. I wanted to."

"It's all right." Alexandre smiled, that strange smile that made Etienne feel loved and safe, as if all was right with the world. "Your friendship is the best gift anyone ever gave me."

"And yours is the best I've ever had, too," Etienne whispered, unable to say how many times Alexandre had seemed to him to be an angel of hope and rescue in a dark world.

They exchanged _Merry Christmases, _then hurried away before they could be caught out of bed. Etienne, at his window, watched Alexandre's halo of golden hair retreat up the street, and waited for his drunken father to return.


	7. Pie: Jehan, Courfeyrac, Combeferre: 1830

_(AN: Back to short pieces, this one silly. Pie was not a big thing in nineteenth-century France, so this prompt bothered me for a while.)_

"I am going to make a pie," Jehan announced grandly, to the back room at large. The general laughter and conversation quieted a bit as everyone turned around to look at him.

"A pie?" Joly asked. "Like…some sort of tart?"

"You bake?" queried Combeferre, a little suspiciously. Jehan's absent-minded nature was obviously a concern to him.

"Sometimes," said Jehan, proudly, raising his chin. "And today, I am going to bake a pie. For Christmas."

"Splendid idea!" cried Courfeyrac, leaping up. "A pie is a thing of beauty and a joy forever—well, at least until it is eaten. I had them when I was in England last year, and they simply must be introduced to France. Citizen Prouvaire, may I join you in this endeavor? I even have a battle plan—one of the charming English girls I dined with provided me with her very best pie recipes."

Jehan grinned. "Marvelous. We shall examine the possible battle plans, purchase supplies, secure a location, and then mount the attack. My landlady likes me as long as I am not asking her to look after my cat, which I haven't done in quite a while, so I think she will allow us the use of her kitchen."

Combeferre raised his eyebrows in the manner which indicated he thought they were facing a disaster. Courfeyrac swung an arm around his shoulders.

"Have a little more faith, my dear Combeferre," he said. "We shall produce a masterpiece which will convince you that even the world of pastry is in the hands of Progress."

Combeferre shook his head. "With the two of you, it is more likely to see a fiery and tumultuous revolution."


	8. Tinsel: Jean Prouvaire: 1821

Eleven-year-old Jean-David Prouvaire was leading five young raggedy siblings from the village around his parents' large house, showing them the Christmas decorations they had asked to see. He paused by the tinsel-wrapped stair railing, crouching down to tell them a story.

"Grownups say tinsel was invented by some manufacturers over in Germany," he said, "but there's a much more interesting story I've heard, about a poor young mother who didn't have any way to celebrate Christmas with her children. She tried, at least, to make the house all nice and tidy for the special day, but in the night a bunch of nasty spiders came, and built cobwebs all in the corners of the rooms, and on the cupboards, and on the windows and the doorframe—just everywhere. But the Christ Child saw, and he wanted them to be happy for Christmas. So what do you think he did?"

One of the little girls, shuddering at the thought of spiders, spoke up. "Did he kill all the spiders?"

He paused. "Well—I suppose he might have. Or perhaps he just took them outside where they belong…spider webs can be very pretty things, in their proper places, and we can't get spider webs if the Christ Child kills all the spiders. But what he did was, he came to their house, and he turned all the old cobwebs into sparkling silver tinsel. So when the mother woke, the whole house was glittering and beautiful. And now when we see tinsel, we should remember that the Christ Child came to make very beautiful things out of very ordinary things."

A little boy tugged at his sleeve. "Did he put coins in their shoes, too, like Saint Nicolas?"

He laughed. "Yes—I'm sure he must have. And probably candy and other nice things. Jesus was a child once, so he knows just what children like."

When the housekeeper eventually came around to chase the poor visitors away, Jean-David Prouvaire sat down on the steps, resting his chin in his hand and realizing that they would not have their cobwebs changed into tinsel that night, or a visit from Jesus himself to provide them with Christmas gifts.

He got pneumonia from tromping around in the snow at midnight to put some of his pocket money into their shoes, and the housekeeper would not be convinced that he, rather than a robber, had taken the tinsel from the stairwell and used it to adorn a village house.


	9. Skating: Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta: 1828

"My dear Musichetta," said Joly, his voice muffled by three thick scarves, "are you quite sure this is a very good idea?"

"Of course I am," she replied, putting three pairs of skating blades into various of his overcoat pockets. "It will be great fun."

"It will be wet and freezing!" he protested. "We shall all catch colds!"

"If we do, then we'll get over them sitting by the fire together with nice cups of hot chocolate."

"But pneumonia!" Joly cried. "Influenza! All manner of—mmmph!"

Bossuet entered the room as Musichetta's lips insistently sought out Joly's, rendering him quite breathless.

"There," she said, as she pulled away from the kiss. "Now, stop that kind of talk and be cheerful, you understand? Ah, Bossuet. You are coming, of course?"

"Yes," he said, buttoning up his old overcoat. "But I must warn you both—or perhaps you can guess—my balance is no better on a pair of metal blades than it is ordinarily. If I manage to fall through the ice, Joly, you must promise not to take on about how quickly I'm going to die. I'd rather not be told."

When they had arrived, Joly courteously fixed Musichetta's skates onto her little boots, then went over to keep Bossuet from mangling the ties that fastened his. When he had pulled on his own, still muttering a little under his breath about the perils of cold and snow, Musichetta took him by one hand and Bossuet by the other, and they tottered onto the ice.

Musichetta was a very graceful skater; Joly could see at once why she had wanted to come. She nearly danced on the ice. He himself managed to stay upright and move along without much difficulty, while Bossuet had to use Joly's cane to balance and propel himself.

Before long, Musichetta was pulling Joly along after her, and they attained a speed Bossuet could not hope to match. He bumbled about by himself, bumping into people and laughing, even taking a few tumbles—after one of them, a rather pretty young girl helped him up and smiled at him, but she glided off before he could make her acquaintance or even properly thank her. Still, despite the mishaps, real disaster did not strike until he was back at Joly's side, at which point Lady Luck graciously allowed him to find the one spot of thin ice in the whole area.

The point of his left skate broke through, and as he slid desperately away with his right leg, the left went crashing in. Joly, shouting his name, caught hold of his arm and tugged with all his might as the ice cracked and cracked—and stopped.

Bossuet's leg was submerged, but the ice he sat on was solid.

This realized, he burst into laughter as he pulled himself up, with Joly's help, and floundered back to shore. "I knew this was an awful idea," Joly was crying, "I knew it! You are going to have pneumonia; you are going to have frostbite and gangrene; you are going to be sneezing and coughing and sore-throated for _months_; you are going to _die, _Bossuet, because you went ice skating! Here, take my scarves—we must keep you warm—though I doubt it'll do much good, soaked through as you are. Merciful heavens, have we ever had such a disaster?"

"Every day," muttered Bossuet through chattering teeth, "every day."

"We shouldn't have come!" Joly shouted, as Musichetta came to support Bossuet on the other side.

"Hush, _mon joli_," said Musichetta, laughingly. "Must I really shut you up in public?"


	10. Frost: Feuilly: 1826

Feuilly sat up abruptly and forced himself from under his blanket, groping for his clothes and pulling them on against the bitter predawn chill. He shoved his feet into the shoes he'd left beside the bed and crossed the room in a few steps, then quickly lit a candle.

He huddled over the flame, his hands greedily absorbing every bit of warmth. The workshop would be cold, but his fingers needed to be nimble to paint. He would spend what he could afford on a cup of hot coffee on the way, he decided, and cradle it as long as he could. It would mean no breakfast, but being hungry did not make him clumsy. He had been poor long enough to learn to work whether he had eaten or not.

Finally giving up his candle, he jammed on his cap, checked for the few coins in his pocket, and turned to go out. As he did, however, he caught a glimpse of his window, white with frost.

Somehow drawn, he stepped closer. Tiny crystals of ice, magnificently textured, covered the windowpane. Their feathered edges, their careful geometric arrangement, the cast of shadows from the dim light outdoors—

He wanted to paint it. But not just the frost…the frost against the battered window frame, the frost against his dilapidated room. The beauty and the misery.

But instead he pulled himself away and went off to work, twelve hours of painting sentimental Christmas scenes and useless detail work.


	11. Eggnog: Courfeyrac and Grantaire: 1827

"Why the hell," demanded Grantaire, "are you ordering _lait de poule_? I hadn't taken you for someone who'd drink milk with eggs in it just because it's the holidays."

"Oh, Grantaire," said Courfeyrac with a wide smile, sitting down across from him, "I am not having simple _lait de poule_. I am having _eggnog_." He delightedly mangled the English syllables. "Milk with eggs in it, yes. But sugar, nutmeg, and then the addition of rum, brandy, bourbon, or sherry."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "If you want festive drinks, Courfeyrac, stick to punch. Or even cider. Better yet, forgo festivities and stick to the brandy and bourbon themselves."

Courfeyrac shook his head. "Come on, my dear fellow—this is an experiment! I'll order a glass for you as well."

"I gave up milk after I was nine years old, thank you."

"No you didn't."

"Did."

"Rude of you to break off the friendship, then. I must reacquaint you with it—it's grown up since then."

Grantaire drained his glass. "Courfeyrac, you are impossible."

Courfeyrac gave his most charming grin. "What's your alcoholic addition of choice?"


	12. Cider: Marius and Mabeuf: 1828

"It is good of you to invite me over for Christmas, monsieur," said Marius, bowing as he entered Father Mabeuf's home.

Father Mabeuf smiled. "Come in and sit down, my boy. In the library, by the fire…you look freezing. Would you join me in a cup of cider?"

Marius gave a small smile. "Of course."

They settled in two old armchairs, and Mother Plutarch brought in their warm cider. Marius cradled his in both hands, breathing in the wonderful smell and the feeling of kindness that surrounded him.

They didn't talk much, both being quiet sorts. Marius gave M. Mabeuf an old book he had found discounted at one of the shops where he occasionally took work, and M. Mabeuf gave Marius a book in return, which he appreciated more for the giver's goodwill than for itself (he had never had an interest in botany, but M. Mabeuf did not know that.) Eventually, they both leaned back in their chairs, and Mabeuf mentioned the person who was on both their minds.

"You know," he said, "Your father spent a Christmas with me once. Lonely man. Kind man. We drank cider, and he wondered about you. About what sort of a boy you were."

Marius looked up at M. Mabeuf, pain showing clearly in his eyes. "You spent a Christmas with my father."

"Yes." The old man smiled. "Yes, I did."

Slowly, Marius' head lowered again, and he stared at the last inch of liquid in his cup. "I never got to," he said quietly. "Not one that I can remember, at least."

Mabeuf put a hand on Marius' shoulder as the young man set aside his cup and dropped his head into his hands.


	13. Peppermint: Gavroche and Azelma: 1831

Gavroche burst into the Gorbeau House singing, causing Ma'am Burgon to shout after him. "Where are you going, you little devil? Quit making such racket!"

He skidded to a halt, turning around to grin at her. "Why, it's the old woman. I'm going up to my ancestors' place, Nosey."

"They're not in."

"All the better." He slouched against the wall. "In fact, I don't want to see them. Just my sister."

"One of your sisters is out, with some young gentleman in a nice hat."

"Better yet. I only need to see the sister who doesn't go out with young gentlemen in nice hats. Now if you'll excuse me, Madame!" He bowed grandly and threw a smirk over his shoulder. "I am off to see one of my relations for Christmas."

Gavroche climbed the stairs rapidly and came into the garret, where Azelma was sitting hunched on her bed. She looked up when he entered, starting to smile.

"'Zelma," he said, opening his arms. She cast off the blanket she'd been huddled under and ran to hug him.

"Gavroche!" she said. "You came! But the others aren't here…"

"'S all right," he replied, shrugging away from her when she tried to ruffle his hair. He dug in his pockets. "Brought you something."

She raised her eyebrows. "You brought me something?"

Smiling at her, he produced two peppermint sticks. "Christmas, you know. One for you, one for me. Swiped 'em. "

She swooped in to kiss his cheek. "Gavroche, you're wonderful!"

Gavroche wiped off the kiss and popped his peppermint stick into his mouth as Azelma did the same with hers. "Come on, sis. You oughtta get out of this place more often. I bet I can sneak you into the theatre…"


	14. Gingerbread: Combeferre: 1810

Little Etienne Combeferre, three years old, sat on a stool by the kitchen stove, swinging his feet as he watched his mother. "What you doing, Maman?"

"I'm baking a loaf of gingerbread," she answered, busily stirring together ingredients. "You can have some after dinner."

He tilted his head, wide-eyed. "Will I like it?"

"Of course you will." She added flour to the batter. "It's very yummy."

"Will Papa like it?"

Mme Combeferre stiffened a bit. "Oh, probably." Crossing the kitchen to get a pan, she changed the subject away from her husband. "Etienne, do you remember how many days until Christmas?"

His brow wrinkled. "Do I count to know?"

"Yes, Etienne, you count to know."

He brought up his tiny, round hand and began to put up his fingers with a look of intense concentration. "One…two. Fwee!"

"Three," she corrected, putting her gingerbread into the oven.

"Three days till Christ-mas," he said, getting the R's out with difficulty. He let out a laugh and clapped his hands. "I said it! I said it _right_!"

"So you did," Mme Combeferre answered briskly. "Here." She handed him a spoon with some gingerbread batter. "You may lick this spoon, Etienne."

He stuck it in his mouth, quickly deciding that he did, indeed, like gingerbread. At dinner, he showed his father that he could say its name correctly, but this key bit of progress was summarily dismissed by M. Combeferre.

Etienne was not daunted and ran around the house afterwards, making R sounds to himself.


	15. Presents: Combeferre and Enjolras: 1828

"You know, Combeferre," Courfeyrac observed, "you have become Enjolras' personal timepiece. Always, I hear him asking, 'Combeferre, what time is it? Do you know what time it is?' One would think he did not own a watch."

"He certainly does own a watch," Combeferre answered. "He simply forgets whether or not he's carrying it, and knows I will have mine."

Feuilly raised his eyebrows. "And he doesn't even think to check his pockets first?"

"It's a habit by now, asking me." Combeferre shook his head. "It is not an issue, honestly—when I am not around, he does manage to be on time for things, and I in turn depend on him for the odd thing. But I do have a solution, which will be enacted at Christmas…I think it will work rather well."

"Do tell," said Courfeyrac, leaning in curiously.

"Oh no," said Combeferre. "It is a surprise, and he shall be the first to know. I insist on that."

—

Combeferre, sitting on the sofa with Enjolras in the flat they shared, pulled his attention from the pile of newspapers from the Republican France that Enjolras had presented him with as a Christmas gift—copies of _Le Vieux Cordelier, Histoire des Révolutions de France et de Brabant,_ _L'Ami du Peuple, Le Journal des Débats,_ and _La Bouche de Fer _were all included, and Combeferre was completely thrilled about the wealth of first-hand material—and gestured for him to open the wrapped box. Enjolras pulled at the ribbon and opened the lid.

His brow wrinkled. "A watch? But Combeferre—"

Combeferre smiled patiently. "Yes, you already own a pocketwatch. But open it, Enjolras."

He lifted the somewhat-battered watch from the box and opened the cover to reveal the face. Ten hours, each divided into one hundred minutes. Decimal time—Republican time.

A smile crept over Enjolras' face. "Combeferre, where did you find it?"

"Second-hand shop," he answered. "I thought you'd enjoy learning to convert times back and forth, and carrying a subtle reminder of life under the Republic…even if decimal time was never widely used."

"I will certainly enjoy it." Enjolras endowed the simple words with full meaning, and Combeferre's heart was warmed. Then a bemused glint came into his friend's blue eye. "…and I certainly shall be less likely to forget to carry it."

Combeferre laughed. "I thought that might be the case. I assure you, though—I thought of it as a gift you would love, before I thought of it as something which would be useful to you."

"I never thought otherwise," Enjolras assured him in turn, clasping his hand. "Thank you—and merry Christmas, Combeferre."


	16. Fireplace: The Conventionist: 1814

(AN: Year is uncertain.)

"Go home, lad."

The old conventionist was wrapped in blankets in his chair by the fire, and the young shepherd boy who looked after him was standing about, looking unsure.

"You've made a good fire for me," the conventionist continued, "and I'll keep company with the cat. It is Christmas. You should be with your family."

The boy stuck his hands in his pockets. "The fire will die down if I'm not here to tend it during the night. You'll be cold by morning."

"I've been cold before, just as you have." He shook his head. "You needn't always be waking in the night for me, anyways."

"But monsieur—"

"But what?" he questioned gently. "I am old, yes. I am nearly eighty-six; perhaps this will be my last Christmas. But this is only your thirteenth. Go home and kiss your mother. See your siblings. Eat with them, sing carols, and do not think of me until tomorrow."

"But monsieur, you'll be alone—"

The conventionist smiled a little. "I shall have my thoughts, the fire, the cat. It is enough."

Again, the boy hesitated, and the conventionist repeated once more. "Go home, my child."

This time, he pulled on his warm things and headed out, closing the door securely behind him. The conventionist turned to stare into the fire, stroking the cat that had curled up on his lap.

Christmas was for the young.


	17. Stockings: Fantine: 1822

Fantine's stockings were worn thin, filled with holes, and quickly becoming absolutely useless. They refused to stay up on her emaciated legs as she walked the streets, and adjusting them was just one more wearying thing to do after every customer.

Her life was falling to pieces, she thought, and she would never see her daughter again; did she have to wrestle with her stockings as well? Could there not be one thing that went right, that was solid and warm and did not require struggle?

"Christmas day," said Claudine, who worked the corner across from her. "Always some desperate ones on Christmas day. And some young, cheery drunks. Some of those drifters, too, just wandering about the streets until they see a woman. Sometimes the young revelers pay extra; I hope I get a few of them. —What are you hoping for today, Fantine?"

"Stockings!" she cried angrily, bending down to fix them for the fifth time already that morning. "Stockings that stay up!"

Claudine crossed the street to her. "Oh, my poor dear," she said, inspecting the holes. "Those are bad, they are. Tell you what we'll do, I'll switch one of mine for one of yours. And then I've got this bit of string—we'll break it in half to use as a sort of garter."

And she promptly sat down on the curb to take off one shoe and stocking. Fantine, simultaneously breaking into rough laughter and hot tears, sat down beside her to do the same.


	18. Cookies, Milk: Courfeyrac, Feuilly: 1829

_(AN: Okay, so it's actually macarons. Close enough to cookies.)_

At a knock on his door, Feuilly lifted his aching head from the pillow. Courfeyrac was opening the door and looking in.

"Heard you were sick," he said, "so I came by. I know Combeferre looked you over the other night and there's nothing properly wrong, but I wanted to ask how you felt."

Feuilly sighed. "Well—I'm glad it's Christmas," he said, "because I'd hate to feel like this on a work day." He sniffled, and Courfeyrac whipped out a handkerchief as he came all the way in, revealing some packages.

"Better sick on Christmas than sick on a work day, fair enough," Courfeyrac admitted, setting his things on the table, thrusting the handkerchief at Feuilly, and looking brightly out-of-place in the dismal flat, "but sick on Christmas is still absolute rubbish. So I came to cheer you up. I like macarons when I'm sick—well, I like macarons anytime—but I thought they'd be nice to bring. And milk, too. I don't know if you like it warm or cold, so I picked up some coal. I can run out and get you soup if you like…"

Still sniffling, though into the handkerchief this time, Feuilly stared. The coal was easily four days' worth, at the rate he normally used it, although the roaring fire Courfeyrac was already building up would certainly shorten that length of time. The macarons were chocolate and bore the label of Courfeyrac's favorite patisserie.

"Warm milk or cold?" Courfeyrac asked as he rose, finally satisfied with the fire.

"Warm, please," Feuilly answered. He was shivering, his throat was sore, and it sounded unbelievably pleasant.

Courfeyrac, chatting enthusiastically all the while, prepared it and handed him a cupful, then pulled the chair to the side of the bed and started passing Feuilly macarons.


	19. Santa: Valjean: 1820

M. Madeleine knew the residences of all his workers. He knew their names, how many children they had, and whether they would be able to provide a cheerful Christmas for those children. And because, despite his best efforts with the factory, some of them would be unable, he was awake as Christmas Eve turned to Christmas Day, busy with preparations.

Giving gifts in secret was far from unusual for him—he wasn't even shy of forcing the door of someone's flat to do it. Today, however, he was carrying more than just a full wallet. A sack was slung over his shoulder, filled with various things for children. He had made some of them himself, of straw and coconuts the way he loved to show the little ones who followed him, and purchased the rest in secret—out of town, in fact, and from sellers with no chance of recognizing him. Receiving presents easily deduced to have come from one's mayor was not at all the same as receiving them from a mysterious Father Christmas, coming to those who had long ago ceased to believe in him.

Earlier in the week, he had performed reconnaissance at all the homes, finding the best ways in. Now, he performed his route, picking locks silently, climbing walls, never allowing his coins to clink or his presents to rustle. His reflexes were still sharp, he found, and the moonlight was just enough to see by but not enough to betray him. A light snow fell through the night, covering his tracks.

More than one couple stirred restlessly in their sleep as he departed, but none woke until dawn. As the children's happy shouts rang out, M. Madeleine took a few hours of sleep in his room, a smile on his face.


	20. Sled: Feuilly and Montparnasse: c 1821

_(AN: Really unsure of the chronology here…Feuilly is meant to be eleven or twelve, and Montparnasse about nine. But considering they probably don't know how old they are themselves, I don't mind being uncertain of the year.)_

"No, Montparnasse." Feuilly crossed his arms. "I'm going out to look for work. I don't care what you do as long as you don't run with that gang, but I've gotta earn something."

Montparnasse scoffed at the older boy. "It's _Christmas_," he said. "Nobody's working. Everybody's off with families, eating stuff and trading expensive gifts. And if you don't want me creeping around trying to pick up some of it, then come on. Let's sled."

"We'll just get colder and wetter than we already have to be," Feuilly protested, his determination to work fading. It was true, almost everywhere looked closed. "I'm not sliding down any hill on my stomach."

"You've never made a proper gamin, Feuilly." Montparnasse shook his curls. "If we're to be cold and wet anyway, why not have fun doing it? —Besides, I've got this." He picked up a fallen shutter. "As good as a proper sled, yeah?"

Feuilly glanced at it, glanced away. "Some of the shops will have to be open…maybe I could sweep some out and get a few sous. They won't take me if I look like I've been romping in the snow. —You could think about working too, you know! Instead of lazing about and running with criminals. You'll never get a start on life that way."

"Maybe I don't want the sort of life you want."

Feuilly's face went hard. "The other sort's no good, 'Parnasse. You've got to believe me."

"Believe _you_? What the hell do you know about it?"

"Enough." He took in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "Go sledding if you want. I'm looking for work so we can eat tonight."

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he trudged away. Montparnasse dropped the shutter on the ground and went off in the opposite direction, looking for the gang he ran with—after all, one of the older boys had been promising him his first knife, and that'd be a great thing to have for Christmas.

That would really show Feuilly which life was no good.


	21. Snowman: Valjean: 1794

"Uncle Jean! Uncle Jean!"

All seven kids came tumbling out of the house at his approach, the youngest on the eldest's hip, none of them dressed warmly enough and half of them barefoot. Valjean, who had spent half the day searching for work in the dead of winter and the other half giving his all to the job he'd found in hopes of earning most of a day's wage, started to push through them to get to his supper, but he turned back at the threshold. He was exhausted, but they usually weren't hard to satisfy.

"What d'you want, kids?"

They got a bit quiet. After a moment, the second-oldest spoke. "We want to build a snowman," he said. "But all day, Mother wouldn't help us, and we're too little to make a proper one by ourselves, you know. So we thought, if Uncle Jean helps, we could make the best snowman."

He stared at them, feeling a bit inclined to just turn into the house and eat before he got any colder, but their hopeful faces stared at him and suddenly he told himself that the day hadn't been too long, after all. He could give a little more.

"Fine," he said, voice still gruff with exhaustion but a hint of a smile on his face. "Just let me give your mother my wages and I'll be right back out."

The snowman they made was enormous, rolled by Jean Valjean's strong arms. Once humanized with sticks and stones and bits of things they found about, it was easily proclaimed to be the best snowman.

The children happily grouped around him while he ate, despite their mother scolding for them to get to bed.


	22. Bells: Combeferre: 1831

"Doctor," whispered the sick man's worried wife, "is there any hope?"

Combeferre's whole being hated to say it. But he took her hand gently, and his voice was calmly caring as he answered with a shake of his head. "He may see morning, madame. But I will not deceive you—tonight is his last."

She bit back a sob. "Christmas—the children—"

"I am very sorry," he murmured. "But your husband has suffered for a long time, and his struggle is ending. Yours begins anew, I know."

Nearby, bells were striking eleven o'clock. Combeferre drew away from the woman, checking the man's vital signs once more. It was cold in the small flat. He had thought of bringing coal with him, but had not wanted to overemphasize the fact that he was making a charity house-call. Still, the cold caused his patient's breathing to become labored more quickly, and he regretted his choice. He could not leave now, however, not when the end could be so close. The wife would not leave either, and none of the children were old enough to be sent out to purchase fuel. Besides, it was too late to provide anything but comfort, and his jacket and overcoat were doing that, laid out over the blankets. Combeferre, shivering in his shirtsleeves, helped the patient through coughing fits, monitored his pulse, gave him water. Really, there was nothing more to do, but he would not leave the family now.

Half-past eleven rang out, and he thought of John Donne. "Perchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill as that he knows not it tolls for him. And perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that…" The bell was not meant for his patient; funeral bells did not ring for the poor, but the ringing was no less applicable for that.

The breaths gradually slowed, the eyes grew more vacant, and Combeferre realized that he did not know the dying man's name. Did it matter? he asked himself. We need not know one another's names to recognize humanity in another, humanity suffering, humanity passing into the unknown—

The last cough came, the last lifting of his hand to his wife's face. At last, the final breath, and as one piece of humanity was borne away, another was diminished by the bearing away of her love and support. Combeferre leaned a little weakly against the door, looking at the weeping mother and sleeping children, and whispered to himself:

"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee…"

Midnight rang out, and after the twelve strokes the church bells proclaimed Christmas day, tolled for birth rather than death, tolled for the long-ago arrival of one who had heralded progress and love.

Combeferre made some few arrangements, promised to return, was tactful, but escaped quickly as he could, for words were echoing in his ears:

_Now this bell tolling softly for another,  
says to me, Thou must die._


	23. Carols: Gillenormand, Amis: 1828

_(AN: "__D'où viens-tu bergère__?" is a traditional French Christmas song. "__Il pleut il pleut bergère"__ was written by a French Revolutionary and is not a Christmas song at all. It takes a fair bit of butchering to put them to the same tunes..both can be found on youtube if you're interested.)_

"Monsieur," said Basque in exhaustion, "they absolutely demand to see you. They will not go away until they have sung you a carol."

"Young revelers, eh?" muttered Gillenormand, with a hint of a smile. "I know something about that." And taking his cane, he surprised Basque by getting up at once and starting down the stairs to the front door.

—

Courfeyrac bounced on his toes excitedly as he caught a glimpse of the old man coming towards them. He was the only one of the group who knew that they had come caroling for the monarchist grandfather that had disinherited Marius. He'd thought it not tactful to reveal it—Bahorel was already rowdy enough, after all, and anyway seeing an address on a package Marius was returning and deducing to whom it belonged was not nearly such a breach of privacy as subsequently revealing that address to a bunch of friends.

He figured they could do the job well enough without knowing.

"Right," he said, "the shepherdess song. Prouvaire, you've the best tenor, so be a good sport and take her solos, will you?"

"Of course." Jehan smiled. "And I shall accompany you for the choruses." He held up his flute. "Now, look, there's the man we're caroling for. I'll give the note—"

As he played an introduction on his flute, Courfeyrac corralled the others, and they began enthusiastically on the sing-song tune (there was a bit of drunken slurring, but not too much.)

_D'où viens-tu, bergère__  
__D'où viens-tu ?__  
__D'où viens-tu, bergère__  
__D'où viens-tu ?_

Gillenormand didn't look too displeased. Jehan's voice, clear and almost girlish, answered:

_Je viens de l'étable__  
__De m'y promener__  
__J'ai vu un miracle__  
__Ce soir arrivé—_

But as he raised his flute for the others to take it up again, Bahorel cut in from the back.

"Hey—what sort of shepherdess song is that? I thought you meant the other one!"

Right on cue, Courfeyrac thought gleefully to himself. Bahorel began with different words, trying to squeeze them into the same tune:

_Il pleut, il pleut bergère,__  
__Presse tes blancs moutons,__  
__Allons sous ma chaumière__  
__Bergère, vite, allons._

"Do, do, do!" cried Joly, shaking his head emphatically in order to make his actual meaning clear. "That is dot right, Bahorel; the tune is this one—"

And he went off with it. Gillenormand cleared his throat violently. "Messieurs," he declared, "you will sing no song written by that traitorous wretch Fabre d'Eglantine at my doorstep! Now be gone with you!"

None of them paid him any mind, as Courfeyrac tried to fit the first words to the second tune, and Jehan trilled some abrupt fragment of a classical piece.

"Go," he shouted, "I tell you, go!"

They all went silent as Courfeyrac turned to him. "But monsieur, we have only just begun! Haven't you any Christmas warmth? Prouvaire here is composing a carol of his own, a much more sober own, about the Christ Child's birth in to misery as a symbol of a new order of equality. How should you like to hear that?"

Gillenormand growled. "I think I'd like to take my cane to you young rascals, that's what I think. Off."

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows, a bit regretfully, and they went into "D'où viens-tu, bergère?" again as they headed up the street. Gillenormand retreated to his chair by the fire and pushed away the wish that his grandson had such cheerful friends to draw him into a happier life, and even a mindset of reconciliation.


	24. Chestnuts: Combeferre and Bahorel: 1830

"…as you can see in conclusion," said Combeferre, "the iron workers' general wage has dropped nearly two percent through a variety of discreet changes in the terms of employment, which at the same time require the lengthening of the workday by up to half an hour to account for assorted tasks that must be done for work to progress, but no longer fall under the list of paid tasks. Because of this—"

Bonk!

Something rather hard, twisted in paper, bounced off his head. The room came alert at once, but looking for the thrower was hardly necessary, for Bahorel was sitting up and untwisting another paper. "Less pay, more work, angry people," he summarized. "I admire your thorough research, Combeferre, but was it really necessary to relay figures for half an hour before coming to the point?" He put a _marron glacé_ into his mouth, lifting his brows as they all stared at him. "Come, you know you want to eat the one I threw at you."

Combeferre did not bend down for it. "In fact, Bahorel," he retorted, "I did think the figures necessary to portray the situation. You may not be fond of them, but they have their place in our work."

Bonk! This time it landed squarely on the table in front of him. "Our work, yes. So on with that; are we in contact with the iron workers beyond your research? Will they strike? Have they any assistance? Do we know anyone who has influence with the employers? Questions that are much more useful than 'on average, how many sous to the hour in this street and that'!"

Feuilly interjected. "Some people are living on that last question as we speak, in case you'd forgotten!"

"I'm sorry." The candied chestnut that sailed through the air into Feuilly's hands was a gift of apology. "That was foolish. I should have said, questions that are much more relevant to what we can do. Because damn it, Combeferre, I can't just listen to you calmly recount all this—if I don't think about doing something, I shall explode."

Combeferre was quiet a moment. "And if I don't set it all into facts," he admitted, "I shall explode at the injustice of the world as well. Or weep." Glancing down at his hands, he began to unwrap the sweet that lay on top of his papers.

Enjolras looked over them all. "There are times for explosions," he said, "and times for tears. And there are times, citizens, when one must look at all the wrongs of the earth and simply say: the future comes, though it is not yet here."

Combeferre glanced up at him, then met Bahorel's eyes and smiled. "I think he means, there are times to lay aside the work and eat _marrons glacés_." And in one smooth motion he reached to the floor and lobbed the first candy-missile back across the room with impeccable aim.

Courfeyrac stole an entire handful of the chestnuts from Bahorel's stash and proclaimed with a full mouth that two a.m. on Christmas Eve, after hours of Combeferre's data, was one of those times.


	25. Music: Combeferre, Enjolras: 1826

When they arrived back in their flat after the tiresome return journey to Paris, Enjolras and Combeferre finally looked at one another and silently admitted that neither had wanted to go home for Christmas. Lyon was, for both of them, a place of the past. Enjolras had not minded seeing his mother, but letters discussing political news were perfectly sufficient for their relationship. Combeferre's family had proven to be as disdainful of him as ever, and only sheer force of will had gotten him away from his father's demands on his future and back to Paris and university.

After depositing their trunks and starting a fire, they took a moment to breathe again in the peacefulness of their book-filled flat.

"Do you know what I have missed over this Christmas season?" said Combeferre at last. "Playing music. There have been masses and carols in plenty, but I have made no music of my own—"

"—and we have certainly played none together," Enjolras finished his thought. "It is a pity your cello is too big to easily transport back and forth, or we might have made arrangements to meet and do so; I was even carrying my violin in case my mother should revive our old custom of the Marseillaise together, but she seemed always to feel unwell."

"That is not like her," Combeferre said. "Has she seen a doctor?"

He shook his head. "She will not unless she feels she must. —But as you said, we should play together."

Combeferre gave Enjolras a sober glance at his choice to leave the topic, and they went to get their instruments. After tuning carefully, they began the carols they had enjoyed most as children, alternately adding harmonies or embellishments to the tunes. The old words moved in their heads, taking on life and prompting thought.

"I have always wondered—" said Combeferre, when they paused to stretch their hands and get a drink of water, "I have always wondered how the church can preach Christmas without preaching equality and human worth. Have they never noted that the Christ Child is visited by manual laborers and foreigners, and born to a woman of no reputation? Can they not see that throughout, hope is brought most of all to the lowly, those whom they now oppress?"

"Either they cannot yet see, or they will not," Enjolras replied. He drained his glass of water. "And when the blind lead the blind, or rather lead those who have been taught nothing but darkness—"

Combeferre shook his head with a sigh, and they were quiet until Enjolras lifted his bow again. "We have played songs that herald one revelation of light;" he said, "now let us play to inspire ourselves towards another."

Combeferre smiled and they bent to their instruments once more, letting the Marseillaise ring out.


End file.
